


Stardate 52842, 0600 Hours in the Mess Hall

by seven_ofmine



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Space Opera, Tooth Rotting Fluff, mentioned scene, slight angst, space lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 21:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seven_ofmine/pseuds/seven_ofmine
Summary: “Stardate 52841, for the first time, Seven tells the Captain ‘thank you’.”“It was Stardate 52842, 0600 Hours in the Mess Hall. We had just finished breakfast.”“My mistake...”





	Stardate 52842, 0600 Hours in the Mess Hall

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been enamoured with this idea for awhile and IM ECSTATIC about it!
> 
> Sending my love ❤️
> 
> Olivia

Seven of Nine, formerly of the Borg Collective, formerly designated under Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix 01, formerly instructed by the most complex hivemind in any quadrant of the galaxy, found herself, not for the first time, lost in thought. Calculations and directives were hardly foreign, but thought? Synapses sparking independent linkage of personal association? 1838.6 stardates had not overwritten the destruction to her young, human mind - just six years old at assimilation. Calculation was relevant to her post as Astrometrics Officer onboard the Federation Starship Voyager, but as she sat next to a viewport in the Mess Hall (labelled in ship schematics as the Captain’s private dining area), consuming Nutritional Supplement #17, she contemplated whether she might ever reclaim the emotional complexity she was robbed of. 

In this seat, one emotion after another runs through her cross-reference of understanding in human emotion. Analysing her late parents’ Borg journals sparked a desire to learn more about herself through their writing. Maybe this was triggered by the success Voyager found at the research, or by processing supplemental records of a childhood she knew, but couldn’t identify as her own. Thoughts of personal attachment seemed to bend and wind around her cortical node until humanity itself felt futile. This frustration fanned an errant flame of anger that often seethed just underneath her skin. For the past 223 Stardates, pieces of an expressive, artistic potential have come in and out of focus, often enough to motivate, but slowly and seldomly nonetheless.

Out of her daze, Seven notices the tables surrounding her are occupied by different groups than when she had first sat down. The Delaney sisters now sat two tables away, quietly sharing memories of a home and family. ‘All that is left of my family exists in PADDs and records in Cargo Bay Two,’ she notes bitterly to herself. 

“This seat taken?” Seven’s head whips up and around towards the soft, deliberate voice of Captain Janeway. She spies attentive eyes and lips curling at a colloquial expression Seven never had a hope in understanding.

‘Futile,’ she repeats to herself, forgetting to respond.

‘You’re more stoic than usual today,” Janeway starts, setting down a plate and mug. “Did you regenerate okay?” She sits across from the young woman, eyebrows knit together in curiosity. Seven eases into the discussion, much like any other they shared, and appreciates her non-intrusive, nurturing nature. 

“I am functioning near peak efficiently,” she huffed. Petulance and frustration were two emotions she’d grown rather familiar with, letting them graze her features.

“Need me to switch around the duty roster today? Get you some time off?” She cuts into her eggs and shovels a forkful into her mouth, keeping her eyes on Seven. “I’m sure we can spare the manpower…” 

Seven observes the formidable Captain murmuring with a mouthful, almost cracking a smile at what even _ she _knows to be ‘bad table manners’. 

She replies: “My post is not my source of inefficiency. I believe the interference to be _ emotional _ in nature,” confessing as matter-of-factly as she can muster.  
“Well, sometimes I find an ear works better than a tricorder.” Another bite, another light-hearted tug at Seven’s lips. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with all the research you’ve been digging through, would it?”

“Perhaps,” she admits with full knowledge the Captain is smiling behind that replicated coffee mug. “On Stardate 52619.2, my human development began to stagnate significantly. I am easily frustrated by nuance I recognize, but still do not comprehend.”

“The waiting game, I understand.” She stops to wonder, leaning her chin on her propped hand. Seven notices the expanding swell in her chest as a result of the soft, attentive look across from her.

“_I _ do not,” she retorts, before she spends another second absorbed in the steel grey eyes across from her. 

“Unfortunately, there is no substitute for time and experience. For example…” Janeway sits up abruptly and stabs at a piece of egg with her fork: “open up.”

Seven’s eyes widen at the incoming nutritional vessel. Looking up for reassurance, she finds Janeway eyeing her lips, waiting with one outstretched arm. The anticipation of the action starts to bubble in Seven’s torso; the excitement sends her senses alight. Her mouth falls open without consent, unconsciously mimicking the parted lips across the square table. Her lips open further still, letting Janeway guide the fork past her teeth. 

Seven’s tongue dances at the sensation; her olfactory senses observe the flavours with minimal hesitancy. 

“What’s the verdict,” Janeway interrupts. Seven continues her quiet analysis until the bite slips down her esophagus. She grimaces at the sensation. 

“I did not _ enjoy _ that food, or the sensation of consuming it.”

“Alright, let’s not give up hope,” she replies with a false seriousness that makes Seven’s lips curl upwards. “Try this…”

Seven watches as a warm, fluffy pastry nears her face on the same metallic vehicle (a fork, she reminds herself). Smelling the warmth from her seat, her mouth waters uncontrollably, and she’s too damned excited to be embarrassed about it. Opening wider, she takes the large bite and hums as her mouth closes. “Did this substance elicit a subconscious vocal reaction,” she asks herself, realizing she couldn’t care less. 

The soft flour mixture continues to wrap her attention, now noticing the viscous sweet spread on top of Janeway’s pile. She finds Janeway grinning in her direction. Was her face reacting as well?

“They’re called pancakes,” she interrupts again. “...with maple syrup on top. The recipe is old, but it’s still in the replicators for a reason.” She chuckles as she speaks. For the first time, Seven feels the urge to giggle with her. She settles on a noticeable grin and swallows - still unfamiliar, but more welcome this time.

“I would like to try that again.” 

“By all means,” Janeway replies, sliding her plate to the middle of the table and handing Seven a fork. Her smile reminds Seven of Naomi Wildman. ‘Maybe it’s the giddiness in her eyes’, she wonders. 

In a comfortable silence, Seven mimics the fork action Janeway seems to have down pat. Accompanied by the hum of conversation in the Mess Hall (pre-alpha shift), she documents each second of the eating experience as it excites her. Her crystalline eyes flicker towards the woman across from her.

“You holding up?” Janeway calls out, bringing her back to Voyager. 

“I am functioning more efficiently,” she declares, smiling with her eyes the way Janeway often does. 

“Hindsight is a gift, Seven. How else are you supposed to see how far you’ve come?”

“A philosophical debate for another day, perhaps?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Janeway replies, dabbing at her lips with a cloth napkin. She passes it to Seven for her to do the same. “I, for one, am very proud of you for every challenge you’ve faced head-on. I’m certain your parents would be too…”

Seven’s chest remembers the deadweight of thoughts that gripped her in a vice only minutes before. How did it all feel… lighter, somehow? Was it the new food, or the conversation, or maybe a combination of the two? ‘Janeway’s presence must have influenced this turn of events’, she concluded. Looking across the table, she watched her Captain gaze over her head at the clock and push her seat backwards. 

“Well, it’s 0600, I better get to the bridge…”

“Yes, Captain. Thank you.” The words are off her tongue before she can think of what to say. Had she ever expressed gratitude towards anyone, ever? Janeway doesn’t expect it either, judging by her frozen mid-stance and the wide, vulnerable look in her eyes. 

“I beg your pardon…” Her quiet tone takes Seven by surprise. She watches her sit back down on the edge of her seat, expression boring into Seven’s eidetic memory for reactionary analysis. 

“Thank you, Captain,” she repeats, a little stunned herself, locking their connected gaze.

“For what, the breakfast?” Janeway’s command mask melts away to whisper, and like the pancakes, Seven doesn’t need to qualify the blossoming in her chest or the faint smiles of both women. 

“For each experience you have gifted me,” she replies, deciding on the answer for herself.

Janeway reaches over the table and takes Seven’s hand in hers. Seven watches the expression, as if in slow-motion. Janeway’s stunned eyes begin to well, and another piece of Seven’s humanity puzzle settles into place.

As she feels Janeway brushing her thumb along her metallic knuckles, Seven grips the warm, slight fingers gently, only able to document one conclusion: trust. 


End file.
